What had she asked, anyway?
Oh, of course. The kind of woman he wanted for a bride.
He couldn’t tell her the first thought that came into his mind—one who was of respectable enough breeding to please his father, but not so aristocratic that she would spend the rest of her life looking down on her husband.
He didn’t think such a woman existed anyway.
“The type of woman I desire,” he said, mostly to buy himself some time to think of something to say. “She should be intelligent.” Because he could not be married to someone who wasn’t, although that might further limit his choice. “And interested in a variety of things so we have conversational topics to discuss in the evenings.”
She looked at him blankly.
And spoke after a moment. “Is that all you want, Mr. Wolcott?”
Is that all you want?
Well, he wished he could announce that he didn’t want any of it, that he would have to compromise something to find a lady who would marry him. Either she would be dimwitted enough to accept the bastard son of a merchant, or she would be so desperate that she would take marriage to him, which would mean that she hadn’t received any other offers.
It did not bode well for him. He returned her gaze, crossing his arms over his chest. He wished he could just stalk away from the conversation, leave her to her managing ways, watch as she tried to lure Bennett into—No, that wouldn’t be fair. Not to his friend, even though he had no doubt that Bennett could keep himself out of this woman’s thrall.
Although Edward had to ask why his friend was so determined.
“You’re asking me what I want in a wife, Lady Olivia, when you should be asking what it would take for a lady to marry me. I suggest,” Edward said, “that you compile a list of ladies whose families are in great need of funds. Those are the only types of ladies who would even deign to consider me as a suitor.” He took a deep breath. “And if any of those ladies are also intelligent and curious, you will have exceeded my expectations.”
Even as irritated as he was with her, and her questions, he couldn’t deny that she was deliciously attractive. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce intent, and she was breathing rapidly, likely in outrage, which made her breasts push up against the bodice of her gown. A gown that was exquisitely designed for her, with tiny puffed sleeves and an alluring edging of lace at her neckline that shifted as she moved, making his eyes leap to see if anything more would reveal itself.
Sadly, she was enough of a proper young woman that nothing did, but he couldn’t keep himself from looking.
He was nothing if not optimistic.
Only he absolutely wasn’t, he had to admit—from the first time he’d noticed he was treated differently from other boys until this very moment, he was suspicious and wary of everyone. Not without cause; this lady herself had called him a bastard before realizing he was acquainted with Bennett. It was only because she was hoping to impress Bennett that she was undertaking this mission to make him respectable in the first place.
“Intelligent and curious. That is what you want in a wife.” She sounded disappointed, and he felt a surge of anger rise up.
“I promise you, my lady, that even those requirements will be near impossible to fill.”
Her eyes glittered with determination. If only—
No, one of his conditions was that his wife not look down on him—at least not much—because of his birth. And Lady Olivia made it clear, with every raised eyebrow, each patronizing question, that she did look down on him. He might find her attractive, even alluring, but he would never consider marriage to her. She was too far above him, in her own mind as well as in reality, to waste a moment thinking of her that way.
Besides which, she believed herself to be in love with his closest friend.
“I have never failed when I have resolved to do something, Mr. Wolcott,” she announced. For a moment, he almost believed her. “Not only will I get you accepted properly into Society, I will find a suitable lady that you will be pleased to marry.”
He felt his lips curl up into a wry grin. “That is a lofty promise, my lady. I will give you a month.” He shrugged, feeling the weight of her gaze on his face. “If you can accomplish what you’ve promised in that time, I will—” what could he offer her? He couldn’t promise her Bennett. But he did have his wealth. “I will donate one thousand pounds to the charity of your choice.”
That would appeal both to her charitable interests and to her assumption that she would succeed at anything she was challenged to do.
She smiled in satisfaction and held her hand to him. “That is a bargain, Mr. Wolcott.”
As he took her slim hand in his and shook it to seal the deal, he found himself—oddly enough—looking forward to the next thirty days, whereas before he had been dreading it.
“You can start tomorrow,” Edward said, rising from his seat. If he was going to be presented as a respectable member of Society, he wanted to get good and drunk first. To forget for a moment who he was, and most important, what he was. The bastard son of an indulgent father who didn’t see the stings and barbs tossed toward Edward in myriad ways.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
Chapter 6
Sometimes people do not know what is best for them. It is your duty to show them the way.
Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Decorum
“Olivia!”
Olivia sighed as she heard her mother’s voice. She was already having a frustrating morning, what with snarling the thread nearly every time she tried to sew. She couldn’t help but realize her entire life was made up of deadlines—she had to deliver shifts by a certain time, respectability and a bride to Mr. Wolcott in a month, and then allow Lord Carson to see the error of his ways and ask for her hand in marriage before her father the duke took his children to the country so he could go hunting.
She did not like hunting.
But these deadlines were all her own fault, brought on by her own determination to do what was right, so she couldn’t complain.
Even though you are complaining, Pearl’s voice pointed out in her head.
“Coming, Mother,” she replied, placing her sewing on the table. She smoothed her gown, picking a few stray threads off her skirts as she walked down the hallway to her mother’s sitting room.
“Yes?” she said as she entered, glancing around the room to see what she might have to fix. It was remarkable how many things suddenly needed her attention now that her older sisters were not in residence. She didn’t mind being in charge, of course; but she did wish her mother and the household in general were less in need of her attention.
She had wrongs to right and wives to find outside of the home.
“Olivia, what is this I hear about your speaking with that—that person?” her mother asked.
Olivia regarded her mother in confusion. “What person?” Cook was the last person her mother had asked her to speak to, and Olivia couldn’t see what her mother’s issue might be.
“Mr. Beechcroft’s . . . son,” she replied in a stiff voice.
The flare of indignant anger rose up in her chest. But despite her mother’s casual dismissal of doing anything that required her to think or act, she would not allow Olivia to lecture her.
Olivia had discovered that, to her chagrin, when she had tried to inform her mother about the conditions at the workhouse.
She had learned to escape the house without being entirely clear about where she was going. Her mother was too distracted by her various and multiple thoughts about the weather, her tea, her lady’s maid’s latest illness, and other extremely important things to bother about where her daughter was going.
Even though her daughter Della had done the same thing, culminating in an elopement with the girls’ dancing instructor. You’d think their mother would have begun to pay more attention to what her remaining daughters were doing, but it seemed she just couldn’t be bothered.
She hadn’t always been like this, but since th
eir sister Della had eloped with the dance instructor, she seemed to have lost her energy.
Although not her voice.
“Mr. Wolcott?” Olivia replied in a casual tone of voice. She couldn’t let her mother know that Mr. Wolcott was her latest project. “Lord Carson introduced us. He is a great friend to Lord Carson,” she added, knowing her mother would seize on that point to allow Olivia to keep his acquaintance.
The only thing she and her mother agreed on, actually, was that Olivia should be married to Lord Carson. Persuading her mother that being polite to Mr. Wolcott would speed the betrothal would allow her to work unimpeded on the Wolcott Project.
“Oh, I did not know that,” her mother replied, patting the chair next to her. “Come sit down and tell me all about this gentleman. A friend of Lord Carson’s, you say? You know your father and I have great expectations of your succeeding where Eleanor . . . did not,” she said, her nose wrinkling at the last two words.
If only the rest of Society were as malleable as her mother. Or wanted something as desperately as the duchess wanted this marriage between her and Bennett.
Almost as much as Olivia wanted it.
She sat down, exhaling in relief. “He is well-spoken.” Especially when pointing out how grossly she’d misread Bennett’s feelings for her. But she wouldn’t be sharing that with her mother. Besides which, she would be changing Bennett’s mind very soon. “And quite polite, despite being . . .” And then she paused. She couldn’t very well say “a bastard” to her mother. “Born as he was,” she finished weakly.
Her mother frowned. “But is he respectable? Does he fit in? It would be horrible if anyone thought less of Lord Carson because of his choice of friend.”
Does he fit in? No, he doesn’t. And not just because of his birth. He stands out, in words and appearance and behavior. Telling her never to let anyone see her pain.
His hair, his looks, his build, were all dangerous. Everything he was combined to become a veritable force, a fearsome storm of fire and emotion and passion.
Not the usual mild type of gentleman Olivia was familiar with. Even Bennett’s presence seemed to dim in Mr. Wolcott’s company, not that she’d admit that. Beyond the confines of her own mind, that is.
Or perhaps to Pearl. But that was it.
“He is a gentleman,” Olivia replied in a firm tone. “He was at school with Lord Carson, and you would never know he was not one of us.”
She was keenly aware of a prickling, guilty sensation flowing through her. Not one of us. It sounded so condescending, something Pearl would point out to her, even though it wasn’t how she meant it.
Although it wouldn’t matter how she meant it if he heard it. It sounded terrible.
“As long as you don’t get it into your head to fall in love with him or anything,” the duchess said, her tone indicating just how ridiculous a proposition that was. Olivia forced an amused smile to her mouth. Did she sound so snobbish when she spoke? The thought made her cringe.
“Being polite to him and allowing him to dance with you every so often is only genteel. Plus I understand his father has quite a lot of money,” her mother added, ruining the effect of charity. “And Lord Carson will take it as a compliment that you are so kind to his friend. I had thought he would have asked by now.”
“Quite a lot of money,” Olivia said hastily, wanting to divert her mother’s attention from a proposal from Lord Carson. Soon enough, Olivia promised herself.
“Well, then, as a polite gesture, you can invite him to dine with us when the Marquis of Wheatley comes in a few days. He will even out the table.” The duchess made it sound as though it was a grand beneficent gesture—and it would be, if Mr. Wolcott’s father wasn’t so rich as to remove the taint of his son’s birth.
“Of course,” Olivia agreed, even though inside she wasn’t certain how to feel. On one hand, she was pleased her mother was being so generous, but she had to admit—this time to only herself, Pearl would not understand—that Mr. Wolcott made her feel all prickly and odd in a way she’d never felt before.
And there was the fact that her mother would likely exhibit the same kind of condescension she’d just expressed, and Olivia didn’t want Mr. Wolcott to feel uncomfortable.
That must be the cause of the prickly sensation, she decided. Not because of him, and how she felt around him, but because she was so acutely sensitive to other people’s emotions. It was what made her so good when she visited the Society for Poor and Orphaned Children. Sometimes she had to close her eyes when she visited the home, since the suffering was too much for her sensitivity.
And if she were able to secure Mr. Wolcott a place in Society and a bride, she would have gained the society one thousand pounds, which would go a long way toward reducing their suffering. Which would then relieve her nerves.
Speaking of which, she had promised she would start tomorrow, meaning today. “Excuse me, Mother,” she said as she stepped toward the door, “I have to go see about things.”
Which if her mother were a normal parent would be insufficiently clear, but because the duchess seldom listened to anybody but herself, and even then only listened about half the time, Olivia’s vague statement wouldn’t be questioned at all.
No wonder Della and then Eleanor had been able to go fall in love and do something about it without anybody noticing. It had worked out wonderfully for Eleanor, now married to Bennett’s brother, although not so well for Della, whose last letter had contained the news that her lover—never her husband—had left her and now she had a daughter.
Eleanor had refused Olivia’s assistance in helping Della, saying that it might jeopardize the girls’ reputations if it were known they were in contact with their scandalous older sister. A refusal that rankled, since Olivia knew she could help if given the chance.
But she should be grateful she hadn’t been, since now she had a task that would take all of her time.
“A Lady Olivia is here, sir,” the butler said with a faint raise of his eyebrow.
The butler, as well as the rest of the staff, had come along with the town house rental. The owners of the property had taken themselves off to the country to recoup their finances following a disastrous turn at the tables by their oldest son. Mr. Beechcroft hadn’t quibbled at the price they asked for the property, provided the house came with a full staff.
Edward knew his father had long ago learned to turn a blind eye to perceived slights. He had been a wealthy businessman working with and among the aristocratic elite for too long not to be inured to it.
But Edward still winced every time he caught one of the upper staff’s moue of disdain at having to take direction from people they would not normally be in service to.
He wished he could somehow communicate that they were not so very different from one another; he and his father had none of the breeding required to be in polite society, and his father had come up from the working class to where he was now.
But he supposed that the snobbishness of the upper class was matched by the snobbishness of the people who served them. At least that was how it felt to him.
“Where have you put her?” Edward asked tersely. This would be something for the staff to chew over as well; why was a duke’s daughter paying a call on Mr. Beechcroft’s natural son? He should have anticipated her foolhardiness and arranged to meet her on neutral ground.
Although there was no neutral ground possible between them, and that was the entire problem. He was not of her world, no matter how much money he had. Nor was she of his; she didn’t know what work was, what it was like to be dismissed because of her birth.
“She is in the yellow salon,” the butler replied.
Edward nodded, and walked quickly down the hall.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” She was standing by the window, her fingers on the sill. She jumped as he spoke, and he wondered what had her thinking so deeply.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott.”
He felt his throat thicken as he look
ed at her. She was so lovely, so shiningly beautiful, it nearly hurt. She wore a pale cream-colored gown trimmed with green ribbons, and her hair was neatly dressed, pulled away from her face with a few strands artfully falling in front of her ears.
“I hadn’t realized when you said we would start tomorrow—that is, today—that you would pay a call here. Are you certain that is appropriate?”
“Of course it is,” she said, gesturing to the corner of the room. “I have my sister here with me, and our ladies’ maid is taking tea in the kitchen.”
Edward glanced to where a young lady was hunched over a book in the corner. A book she quickly covered with her hand as he approached. Interesting.
“I haven’t met you yet, have I?” he asked, walking forward to her.
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Where her sister was all bright lightness, this lady was a study in contrast—black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes.
“That is my sister Ida, I told her you had a massive library she could visit if she would come here. My family knows the owners of the property, you see, and while I prefer to be doing things, Ida enjoys reading about things.”
Edward suppressed a smile at Lady Olivia’s dismissal of her sister’s academic pursuits.
“Of course, you are welcome to peruse the library. It is just—”
“I know where it is,” Lady Ida said, interrupting. She rose and gave a brisk nod to her sister. “You’ve got half an hour and then we have to go.”
Edward watched bemusedly as she marched out the door.
“Well,” he said, turning back around to Lady Olivia, “we have half an hour. What can we accomplish in that time?”
What can we accomplish in that time?
For a moment, Olivia just stood and stared at him, his words conjuring up all sorts of things that were not pertinent to why she was there. Images of him taking her in his arms, pressing his mouth against hers, letting her slide her fingers through those unruly curls.
She was in love with Bennett, not his friend. She needed to remember that.
The Duke's Daughters_Lady Be Reckless Page 6